


Effort By Committee

by Culumacilinte, woodironbone



Series: Angels & Daemons [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Clothed Sex, Daemon Touching, Dry Humping, Foreplay, Group Sex (kinda), Light breathplay, Multi, Post-Coital Cuddling, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte, https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/pseuds/woodironbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aziraphale refuses to go out or do anything but be an unmitigated book-reading bore, Crowley and Aziraphale's daemon conspire to ruin his night in with some elaborately scandalous foreplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Effort By Committee

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Culumacilinte, who asked for daemon touching (then proceeded to outline the whole story and write some of the dialogue), and who created Bayan.
> 
> Followup (many centuries thereof) to "Inside Where Nothing Shows."
> 
> Bayan is a large common green magpie.  
> Orisa is a ball python.  
> Headcanons for Crowley and Aziraphale are Kunal Kapoor and Richard Ayoade.

Bayan cocks her head, once this way, then that, peering bright-eyed over Aziraphale's shoulder from her perch on the back of his armchair. “What're you reading?” she asks.

“Literary criticism,” he murmurs, turning a page.

“About?”

“Oh, who _caaares_ ,” moans Crowley from across the room, where he is so far slouched into his chair that he is nearly in liquid form, pouring over the sides of it. “So bloody _boring_ , you are. It's a Friday! People go out on Fridays! We could go _out_. Have a little _fun_.”

“He hatesss fun,” Orisa hisses delicately from her coiled position on Aziraphale's lap.

“I most certainly do not _hate_ fun,” says Aziraphale flatly.

“Has he ever even _had_ it?” Crowley lifts his head and a hand to push his sunglasses down his nose with extreme effort. “Orisa? You'd know.”

“He has had fun on several occasions,” she says calmly, shifting her position and slithering out from under Aziraphale's hands to the floor. “It was awful every time.”

“Some help _you_ are,” says Aziraphale bitterly, without looking up from his book. Orisa always seems to take Crowley's side against him, ever since the first time they met, when Crowley had expressed insufferable, unfiltered delight at Aziraphale's embarrassing predicament, having a snake for a dæmon—and perhaps a little envy as well, which is coincidentally exactly what Aziraphale felt when he'd laid eyes on Bayan. She was a smaller bird than the forms Orisa had taken before she settled, but a bird nonetheless, and a very pretty one at that. Some sort of cosmic joke, giving him the snake and Crowley the bird. Orisa herself seems to find it highly amusing.

“Could have fun _here_ , too,” Crowley points out.

“Could indeed,” agrees Orisa, now moving slowly across the room toward Crowley.

Aziraphale ignores them both. Bloody pair of smart alecks. “I'm having a perfectly good time right now,” he mutters. “Or I would be, if you'd all just let me read in peace.”

“Have it your way,” sighs Crowley, sitting himself up a little straighter, idly watching Orisa as she crawls over. “We can surely entertain ourselves.”

Bayan's attention skips from the book (which is, she has to admit, rather boring) to Crowley and Orisa. She can see what Crowley's thinking well enough, and it is so very amusing. Part of her would like to join in, but on the other hand, she's got front row seating here. Better to wait it out. Where Crowley is often full of restless, slouching urgency, Bayan is often content to wait and watch.

Orisa comes to a halt at Crowley's feet and lifts her head to study him, her tongue flicking in and out. Crowley gazes down at her with a soft smile, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, fingers curled against his cheek in a perfect picture of composure.

Aziraphale is so intent on ignoring them that he actually doesn't realize what's about to happen until it's happened.

Orisa raises herself up and crawls right into Crowley's lap.

“Well hello, love,” says Crowley sweetly, welcoming her up, running one hand down her back, lifting the other scratch lightly under her chin. “Who's a pretty girl, then?”

Aziraphale has gone quite, quite still.

Orisa has never been much for propriety—that's Aziraphale's way, so full of hangups and excuses, but the way she sees it, he's only ever delaying his own satisfaction. Much simpler to cut right to the chase, isn't it? In an odd sort of way, she and Crowley see much more eye to eye on this sort of thing. In this case, the silent agreement to break this taboo was automatically understood. This is not the first time they've made contact, but Aziraphale's always been involved in the proceedings first, as is common practice. It's the 'proper' way of doing things. But that takes so long. Why _shouldn't_ she make herself comfortable, if Crowley's of a mind to share affection? Let Aziraphale see what he's missing.

“What a darling you are,” coos Crowley, completely ignoring Aziraphale as he strokes and scritches at Orisa. “What a gorgeous beast.” And she is, too—completely gorgeous, and so wasted on the angel. At the very least she confirms several suspicions he's always had about his counterpart, mainly that he's a good deal more of a bastard than he likes to let on.

By now the book has fallen shut in Aziraphale's lap. He clings tightly to the arms of his chair as though he might keep himself anchored. With every touch of Crowley's hand to Orisa's skin, Aziraphale feels a distinct heating of his skin, a clench in his gut, a tremor running through him; he squirms in his seat and tries so very, very hard, with every musterable shred of willpower, not to make a sound.

He does not succeed. Crowley strokes one long finger slowly under Orisa's throat, and Aziraphale whimpers, soft and pleading.

“Hmh,” Crowley chuckles, eyeing his afflicted companion. “I'd say we've got somebody's attention.”

“Well of course we have,” says Orisa matter-of-factly. “The book certainly wasn't holding his interest.”

Bayan watches them, still content to remain at her distance, though her feathers are fluffed up a little more than usual. Below her, Aziraphale wriggles with bated agitation.

“O-Orisa,” he stammers, blinking over at them.

“Yesss?” She doesn't even bother looking at him. Instead she rubs her head slowly under Crowley's palm. It's so incredibly, _unbearably_ intimate, not just Crowley's touch but that _she_ is instigating it, and Aziraphale finds he can barely breathe.

“He's in a state,” comments Crowley, enjoying every moment of it, then pitches his voice low, velveteen, and conspiratorial: “Do you suppose we could make him come with me only touching you?”

“ _Crowley!_ ” protests Aziraphale sharply, unable to keep from rocking his hips forward at the sheer surprise of it; the book falls from his lap, hitting the floor loud enough to startle, but neither Crowley nor Orisa flinch.

“Hsss,” Orisa muses. “Well that wouldn't be very _nice_ , now, dear, would it?”

No sooner has she said this than she butts her head up against him, rubbing luxuriantly across his chest, drawing a pleasant breath from him and a distant, plaintive moan from Aziraphale.

“But I rather reckon we _could_ ,” she says slyly.

Crowley grins and slides both his hands down the thick, muscled length of her, and she hisses in delight and pushes up to his shoulders, wrapping her body around him once before coming finally to loop around his long, narrow neck.

“Ah,” Crowley murmurs, his breath catching just a little, as he leans back against the plush cushioning of the armchair and slowly, purposefully strokes the serpent coiled around him, the very image of decadence and temptation. Bayan watches closely, rapt and tensed on her perch, but even she can't help wanting to sigh and shake her head at him, oh Crowley, just who do you think you are trying to fool, here?

However overwrought, it has its desired effect on Aziraphale, who twists and writhes in the chair, panting, flustered beyond reprieve, unable to stop his thighs pressing together, his hips pushing back, desperate for something to rub against; his fingers are still curled so tightly over the arms of the chair it's almost like he's been restrained, held down from acting on any of these earthly, unseemly desires.

“Really,” he says, breathlessly, desperately, chiding his wayward dæmon, “I could hardly have expected better from _Crowley_ , but—” (he breaks off with a little cry as Orisa loops herself tighter, eliciting a little wanton murmur from Crowley) “—but my own dæmon!” Aziraphale struggles against his grip on the chair, watching her with wide eyes. “You're shameless.”

Orisa bares her fangs with a hissing little laugh and says, “One of us has to be, Azzzziraphale.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a shrill whine as she squeezes Crowley nice and slow, Crowley's hands still working over her gently but firmly. Aziraphale presses himself hard against the back of the chair, his breath coming quick and shallow, a certain tingling just starting to come into his extremities.

Well that's quite enough sitting on the sidelines, Bayan decides. She hops down from her perch and alights softly on Aziraphale's shoulder, immediately leaning in to rub her feathered head against his cheek. His gives a shuddering gasp, feeling a small measure of relief at the contact; with a trembling hand he reaches up to cup his fingers around her, stroking her back as delicately as he can manage. She whispers a guttural, crowlike sound in his ear, and across the room, Crowley's back arches and his head jerks back, exposing more of his neck for Orisa to claim. She squeezes so gently, never enough to fully restrict his breathing, just enough to make him work for it.

“Oh goodness, oh, Cr- Or-” Aziraphale can't decide who to address, jut knows that he desperately wants contact from one or both of them, enough that every light touch of Bayan's feathers against his skin is making him twitch and shiver. “ _Please_ ,” he begs quietly, not sure who he's begging or what he's begging for.

“Th-that's it,” says Crowley, stutteringly, between his teeth—every squeeze from the serpent and every brush of Aziraphale's fingers against Bayan making his hips jerk.

Orisa just hisses contentedly, and she begins to unravel herself, rubbing slowly down Crowley's chest and curling around his waist.

“Oh just bloody come over here already!” Bayan shrills with an urgent flap of her wings.

Crowley gets to his feet as if pulled on marionette strings, Orisa still draped around him, and makes his way quickly, stumblingly, over to Aziraphale's chair. He slides down without hesitation, straddling the angel and pressing against him, kissing him hungrily; Orisa uncoils partway and wraps around both of them, settling her head on Aziraphale's shoulder to nuzzle against Bayan.

Aziraphale grips Crowley's jacket tightly, moving against him with frantic, arrhythmic jerks, and when he finally does come it is with a strained, strangled cry, clinging hard enough to bruise. Crowley follows a moment later and curls over him, shaking with aftershocks.

“Oh,” Crowley breathes, “oh, _angel_.”

Orisa sighs with immense satisfaction and uncoils herself, slithering down from both of them and settling in between, curled up in their laps. Bayan hops down to nest on top of her.

“You are _all incorrigible_ ,” says Aziraphale once his voice has returned to him.

“You cheated,” Bayan comments. “You said you could do it without touching him.”

“Certainly could have,” says Orisa, her tongue flicking out, tickling the bird's wing. “But it wouldn't have been as _nice_.”

“Well,” says Bayan, considering it. “No, I suppose not.”

“Everyone hush,” says Crowley, shifting his position to the side, his legs bent up over Aziraphale's crowded lap, and leans against the angel's shoulder. “I'm going to have a nap.”

“I don't suppose anyone wants to hand me my book,” Aziraphale interjects from beneath the pile of utter scoundrels. No one does; and within moments, he suspects _just_ to spite him, they are all asleep. He sighs and miracles himself a glass of wine instead. _Oh well_ , he thinks, rather fondly.


End file.
